


The Death of A Fallen Angel

by an_awkward_shit



Category: Mythology, Original Work
Genre: Angels, Fantasy, Gen, I was inspired, Literature, Mythology - Freeform, Nature, Poetry, Ralph Waldo Emerson - Freeform, Religion, just a little something I whipped up after reading Emerson, sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_awkward_shit/pseuds/an_awkward_shit
Summary: “Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.” - Ralph Waldo EmersonShe always knew the End was inevitable. But it didn’t matter. She’d been there far too long, anyway.





	The Death of A Fallen Angel

**Author's Note:**

> After reading Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Nature,” I couldn’t help but be inspired, and thus comes the creation of this. Interpret it how you like!

There must be a time when an End is faced. She assumed it would be long from now when she met hers, but she’s not sure if the sudden reality is a mercy or torture.

With her last chances of conjecture, she thinks of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Nature,” strangely enough. There’s nothing to it, really, no point to it beyond melancholy and, perhaps, useless musings pondered about only upon the brink of death.

But, then again, she thinks maybe it does come to her for a reason, now. Perhaps, truly, there is something in it that calls to this moment in time, as she lies silent, breathing in her last scraps of Now, the final opportunities given to her by the Beginning. The warmth underneath her has long grown sticky, no longer a thing that crafted fear in the depth of her belly, now only an irritating nuisance that robs her of her last wisps of comfort, cold though they are.

Solitude, she remembers his writings from years ago, so vividly it is strange, can not be found while one is only alone if while being so they hear a song or read a book amongst themself. Solitude can not be found with thoughts and opinions, words of another, inside the mind. Physically alone, there are still ghosts among one who holds writing or music, or any form of a man-made creation. There is a person behind that, another human mind with their own things to say, and it swims in the head of others who hear it, read it, see it—it corrupts and twists one’s own speculative thoughts, unintentional or not.

Solitude, she recalls, can only be found when one’s mind and soul is the only thing present among the force of Nature and the Universe itself. Star-gazing, he wrote, where one was alone in one’s wandering thoughts and ponderings. One is left to their own makings of the world, watching what cannot be reached. Oneself realizes how small they are, as they gaze up at the expanse of the dark, twinkling sky, when they observe the stretch of the Universe, its immenseness compared to one individual.

Her vision is blurring now, in and out at an impatient pace that fills her with growing anxiety. The pain has faded by now, only a numbness to her body and a light fog filling her head left behind in its sharp wake. She knows it’s solitude she finds herself in now, alone to stare up at the dusk sky as her life pours from her vessel, soul reaching to the unreachable as it feels to leave the earthly plane.

She’s not scared. She doesn’t hope for her End, not now, but the leaving of the Earth is not something she necessarily dreads, either. Even so, what is there to fear? Death would come in one form or another, one day, and there was no delay to it, barring time. She doesn’t think there’s much more in life for her, anyway, for more time to be of much use; she’s lived for a long time—far too long, she thinks—and her luck, and her curse, was bound to run dry eventually.

But in that solitude, as Emerson says, she’s left to her own thoughts, her own creation of the world she’s experienced up until now, up until this untimely demise of hers, an End befitted for what she is, or more so what she’s become. As a child, she’d thought there would be nothing special about her, that she’d die like anyone else, disease or age, for ordinary people don’t die heroically or dramatically, do they? Or perhaps some do, but nobody ever cares because they are ordinary, that.

She likes to think that she’s beyond ordinary anymore, even though she knows it doesn’t matter. She’ll die unknown either way—she hadn’t meant to exist from the start, yet she did, and then she didn’t, even as she felt and listened and suffered. She supposed now her nonexistence with death would reconcile her soul, or what was left of it, with the Universe and its workings—no longer would she be an abomination among Creation.

“Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.” If one were to grieve a lost soul, to struggle through everyday hardships and pain, to feel as though the world belonged without one in it, Nature would reflect it back, one’s view of the world and the Universe around them shifting to fit man’s emotion. Thus, Nature’s beauty would not always bring joy, but also melancholy and darkness; wrath and envy.

Her breast slow in its movements, she thought Nature would look bleaker in the end, fitting to reflect her leaving and useless desire to refuse, but it doesn’t. The trees in the moonlight look as ethereal as she knows she did once, dark bark in the moon’s gleam full of a strange luster, leaves like crowns and jewels on a King. Branches, some more full with foliage than others, sway in the gentle breeze that provides no kind of chill, except the one she feels creeping up her spine and into her heart (but that has nothing to do with the wind). The dark vastness above her empty head is an endless space, but the brightness of the moon spreads light into even the largest of endless voids, painting the skies with various shades of darkened blues and off whites, and, in some cases, the prettiest shades of purples and distant greens.

She thinks it might be because there’s no true regret for the present, beyond the wish to say goodbye to those she did, somehow, come to care for in her lengthy years.

Eyelids heavy and a gentle buzzing thrum echoing in the caverns of her mind, she knows sleep is inevitable. The embrace is as welcoming as it is terrifying, for even for all she is, she knows not what awaits her after she shuts her eyes and gives herself away. The mystery of it should be more clear to her, she thinks, but it’s not to be, and she can’t find it in herself to take blame for that. It’s a sign, she supposes, that like anyone else, she is not meant to know.

Last words are in order, even with no one there to witness them. Regrets of past wrongs should be expressed, sins voiced to relieve a heavy soul. And yet, she feels better to go with them. She’s promised herself no regrets, but she knows she has them somewhere deep inside, and still, she can’t be bothered to search. Her sins are a weighty pile, dark and selfish just as much as they reflect the sentiment of the road to Hell paved with good intentions. But she’s never hidden those wrongs, never felt the need to hide the darkness everyone already knew she possessed, so there’s nothing more to voice. Her soul remains heavy, but it’s always been a burdened, troublesome thing; it’s as light as it can get.

She thinks, in another life, she’d have a whole slew of last words to give, be them different or a collection for a loud monologue. But in this moment, she has nothing she truly wishes to say to the empty breadth of the Universe. There’s no need to waste final moments on frivolous words meant for nobody but herself; she already knows them all by heart.

She lets her eyes slip closed, finally, body lax against the sweep of grass beneath her cooling body, though she still breathes shallowly. Her last glimpse in life is the infinite spread of night, unfathomable and unreachable stars decorating its abyss with the luminescent moon illuminating the Universe’s masterpiece.

She finds she doesn’t regret the sight, as blood dries in her throat and beneath her tongue, a cry for all she died with, hidden sorrows and contrite lies blooming too late between her lips.

_—“The Death of A Fallen Angel”_


End file.
